


What Happened

by WyattAnderson (dappled_feathers)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Fourteen-year-olds being awkward at one another, Hogwarts Fourth Year, I have no idea how to write British sorry, M/M, Maybe underage?, Non-Canon Relationship, Ron's POV, Slight Alternative Universe, Stream of Consciousness, Takes material from both books and films, There is mention of puberty things, but it's not explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-02
Updated: 2016-04-02
Packaged: 2018-05-30 19:06:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6436666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dappled_feathers/pseuds/WyattAnderson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>That’s just the thing, though. He doesn’t know what happened.</p><p>He can’t pinpoint a single event where everything suddenly made sense. There was no epiphany or choir of angels or aligning of stars, or any of the other rubbish Parvarti goes on about in the Great Hall. There’s no one moment when he realized, “Oh.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Happened

**Author's Note:**

> My first-ever fic, and of course it's a rare pair :P Usually I'm a hardcore Ronmione shipper, but there's something about these two boys that just gets to me. 
> 
> Not beta-ed or even edited, really, so any glaring errors are definitely my own. Comments/critiques definitely welcome, in fact, encouraged! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

 

 

 

Ron practices in the mirror first.

 

“Mum. Harry and I…”

 

His voice peters out. He exhales once, sharply, through his nose. The skin on his knuckles stands out white as his hands fist themselves tightly. He tries again.

 

“The thing is-”

 

No. That’s not right, either. 

 

“Careful you don’t break something important there, dear,” the mirror advises sleepily. Ron scowls at his reflection (well, he’s scowling at the mirror, but the dumb expression on his face is what he sees), and tries once more.

 

“See, what happened was…”

 

♚

 

That’s just the thing, though. He doesn’t know what happened.

 

He can’t pinpoint a single event where everything suddenly made sense. There was no epiphany or choir of angels or aligning of stars, or any of the other rubbish Parvarti goes on about in the Great Hall. There’s no one moment when he realized, “Oh.”

 

 _Moments_ , though? Little stray, bent pieces lost from various jigsaw puzzles, all jumbled together in the bin of his mind? Oh, sure. He’s got lots of those. 

 

♚

 

“Next time there’s a ball, ask me before someone else does, and not as a last resort!” Hermione screams in his face, before stomping up the stairs to the girls’ dorm, where his retort can’t reach her.

 

 _Completely missed the point_. He says as much to Harry, who nods vaguely but doesn’t say anything, like he disagrees but won’t say so. This happens a lot now. And it’s Ron’s fault. 

 

Ron will argue with just about anyone- the consequence of being the youngest boy and second-youngest child, he supposes. He isn’t dashing and daring like Bill or Charlie, smart and ambitious like Percy, or funny and clever like Fred and George; but start a fight and he’ll damn well finish it. He always has a reply, knows how to hold his own with words. Mum, Snape, Malfoy, Seamus, Ginny- doesn’t matter. Hell, he and Hermione have full-on screaming matches once a week, at least. But up until two months ago the one person he’d never once fought with had been Harry. 

 

Then he’d gone and mucked it up, as usual. Gone and acted out on feelings he can’t even properly label now, in the aftermath- some mixture of jealousy and fear and cold dread sitting low in his stomach, surrounded by something worse, something that made his palms itch and his ribcage feel three sizes too small, like in that muggle book Hermione showed him. He’d walked around for weeks feeling like he was going to throw up any minute, and now Harry’s back and everything is all right, or it should be, but they keep tiptoeing around each other like prodding the skin around a scrape and Ron still mostly feels like he wants to throw up. 

 

The point is this: he’s losing them. Krum is just the first in a long line of special people who are bound to recognize Hermione for what she is: just like them, just as special, because she’s bloody _brilliant_ and amazing and far more ruthless than she looks. And Harry spent half the night mooning at Cho Chang, while Ron’s date only went with him because she felt sorry for him and because Harry was the one who asked. And Snape’s accusation, “What are you two doing?”, as if he and Harry would ever go around sneaking in bushes like Fawcett and Stebbins, and oh, look, he’s about to throw up again. 

 

The point is that it doesn’t actually matter whether he pushes them away or not, because separation is inevitable. But he doesn’t know what the fuck he’d do without them, and the fear makes him lash out and hurt them anyway, and isn’t that ironic?

 

Completely missed the point. Went right over their heads.

 

♚

 

“You don’t want to go making friends with the wrong sort. I can help you there.”

 

 _So much for that_ , Ron thinks. Which is too bad, because Harry is...nice. Not like a famous person at all. He was hoping they could be friends, maybe be in Gryffindor together with all his brothers. Harry seems lonely, and it’s not like Ron doesn’t have enough family to go around. They could’ve shared. 

 

The train car rumbles under their feet and Malfoy’s hand sways a bit while Harry stares at it. _It’s okay_ , Ron tells him silently. _You can take it, I understand. I won’t be mad_. It’s sort of a lie, but Ron isn’t stupid no matter what Percy says. He gets how the world works, and this is exactly how the world works. 

 

But Harry doesn’t shake Malfoy’s hand. Harry says, “I think I can tell who the wrong sort are for myself, thanks,” and turns back to look at Ron with a weird challenging gleam in his green eyes. Malfoy’s jaw nearly hits the floor and Ron, for the first and probably only time, agrees with him, because _what_. 

 

Harry chooses _him_. The realization makes something go wild in his chest, and when Scabbers chases Malfoy and his goons away he can’t help but laugh the feeling out through his throat. Harry laughs too, and their giggles persist even as they change into robes. 

 

Ron’s first real friend is the best anyone could ever have, he already knows. 

 

♚

 

“You never know, do you?”

 

“S’pose not…” Harry sounds doubtful, but Ron doesn’t see how he could be. The Triwizard Tournament? People who win that become _legends_.

 

Then again, Harry already is a legend, has been since before he could talk, so that probably doesn’t matter much to him. Neither does the gold, he’ll bet, but Ron can scarcely imagine it- a thousand galleons! Immediately his mind jumps from image to image: robes that aren’t three inches too short, a new roof for the house, being able to treat Harry and Hermione whenever they go to Hogsmeade, nice jewelry for his mum…

 

He lets the images shift and change until it’s just them, the three of them. Hermione, witch genius, Harry, the Boy Who Lived, and him, Ronald Weasley, Triwizard champion. So often he feels swallowed up by their shadows when he stands between them, but if he won the tournament, he wouldn’t feel that way anymore. He’d be better, worthier. 

 

It’ll never happen, of course, but it’s nice to dream, that one day he could deserve what he has.

 

♚

 

“Can you,” Harry pauses, and a flush of pink crawls up his neck to his cheeks. He holds his towel and shower caddy between them like a shield. “Can I go first, actually? By myself, I mean.”

 

Ron gulps, and then wonders why he did. The question isn’t new, exactly- Harry’s always been squirrely about the communal baths, embarrassed about how small he is, maybe, even though he looks loads better than he did two years ago, when they were titchy little first years. He’s grown a couple of inches, now he’s getting fed properly, and Wood’s fanatical Quidditch practice schedule is slowly giving him new muscle, broadening his shoulders just a bit. Little clues, suggestions of what his body will look like another two years from now, puberty promising future favors. He’s even got a tan, and who in bloody hell gets tan in _Scotland_ , Ron wonders. But that’s Harry all over, leaving Surrey pallid and unhealthy and blossoming under northern clouds, movements freer and smiles brighter and skin several shades darker. What on earth Harry has to be embarrassed about now is beyond him. Not like he’ll ask, though.

 

Ron is covered head to feet in stinking bog mud from Lupin’s obstacle course-slash-final exam, and just for a moment he considers telling his best friend to stuff it, but instead he shrugs. “Course,” he says, and Harry jerks his head in thanks and scurries for the baths. All normal here.

 

Except-

 

Except not? And Ron can’t quite put his finger on why, only knows he’s blushing, can feel the heat like a stripe across his cheeks and nose, and-

 

And that’s it. Harry was _blushing_ , and not looking him in the eye, when usually he’s the kind to brazen through whatever’s got him feeling awkward. Ron thinks back to this morning, when he woke up humping his own mattress, thanking Merlin for spelled curtains that block out sound. He tries to stop himself from imagining what goes on behind Harry’s curtains or when he’s alone with nothing but hot running water for company, but then he can’t _not_ think about it-

 

“Bugger!” Ron jumps up from his bed and paces the room, blood hot under his clothes. Where do thoughts like that even _come_ from? Better yet, how does he make them stop? He hardly feels like his body’s his own these days, urges squirming in his belly and just under his skin at the slightest sign of bare flesh, of cleavage or the curve of a shoulder or the briefest glimpse of a treasure trail. Adjusting himself under desks and tables, thankful for loose robes. It’s maddening, how does anyone just walk around like this, going about their business without flying apart? Ron’s dad sighed when he caught him during the summer washing his sheets for the fourth time that week, and gave him a very long talk that he doesn’t want to think about _at all_ , in fact he would like to pretend it _never happened_ , and the talk didn’t do him any good anyway because while it was full of awkward pauses and strange statistics it didn’t mention _anything_ about how to keep yourself from going crazy while your body did whatever the hell it wanted, no bothering to ask for your opinion on the matter. 

 

It occurs to Ron that it’s perhaps a tad hypocritical, judging Harry for being so uncomfortable with himself that he has to shower alone. In fact, maybe Ron should be following his example. 

 

♚

 

“Come on Harry!” Hermione is screaming, almost more worked up than the angry dragon. The _dragon_ , the bloody enormous and spiked all over and fire breathing _dragon_. That Harry is fighting. With a broom. And a wand. And that’s all.

 

Ron has long since chewed his nails down to the quick, and now he’s just worrying the skin on his fingertips with his teeth. He’s not going to have fingers at all by the time this is over with. 

 

Harry doesn’t look afraid in the least, of course. He looks fierce, and happy, wind whipping at his hair and scarlet uniform, darting around the dragon like a suicidal fly. He’s shouting, too, and Ron can’t hear but he can guess, something like _Come on, you great ugly thing,_ and _You can do better than that_ , because Harry is completely mad. 

 

The whip of a tail, the flash of a bronze spike, and there’s a great bloody gash on Harry’s arm. Harry grasps at it, almost falls off his broom but quickly rights himself. The blood blends with the scarlet on his uniform, he’s scarlet all over, he’s blood all over. Hermione is clutching her face and crying, and somehow it never occurred to Ron that Harry could actually die in this tournament, that for every winner of the Triwizard Tournament who lived on in glory, was another who didn’t live to see the closing ceremony. It’s almost impossible to believe, but Harry is, actually, breakable.

 

Harry lives. He does brilliantly, actually, gets the egg in record time, and the scratch doesn’t look so bad when both of them have their feet on the ground. But what _did_ happen doesn’t change what _could’ve_ , and Ron doesn’t think he could bear it if the last thing he’d said to his best friend was “I expect you’ll need to be up early tomorrow for a photo-call or something.”

 

“Harry,” he says this time, voice shaking and feeling like the world’s biggest prat. Maybe even bigger than Malfoy. “Whoever put your name in that goblet, I-I reckon they’re trying to do you in!” 

 

Harry just looks at him, expression cold and blazing at once, and Ron feels his heart drop to his toes, ready for stepping on.

 

But what Harry says is, “Forget it.” Hermione hugs them both and runs off howling because she’s just as mad as Harry is, and then it’s just the two of them, still hugging. It’s funny- Ron often forgets that he’s significantly the taller of the two, because he so often feels small around Harry, and Harry so seldom lets someone else touch him. But it’s easy, when they’re like this, to wrap his long arms all the way around his best friend and hold on tight.

 

 _I’m fucked_ , Ron thinks. _I’m so buggered_. 

 

♚

 

“See you in a bit,” Harry says, voice shaking, and his footsteps echo as he walks away. 

 

Which leaves Ron with Lockhart and a mountain of rubble to shift. He can’t think beyond that; his hands start shaking when he remembers the giant snake skin bigger than anything out of his nightmares, imagines his sister pale and cold and dying somewhere he can’t reach. He grabs the nearest rock - _One at a time, Ron, just do this one rock at a time, and you’ll be done before you know it_ \- while Lockhart shuffles uselessly behind him.

 

“Odd sort of place, isn’t it?” he asks, voice strangely vacant. “Do you live here?”

 

“No,” Ron answers shortly, and cuts himself trying to shift a boulder, but he keeps going. If this is the only job he can do, he’s going to do it properly. He has to clear a path, because they _will_ come back, _both_ of them. They _will_. Harry will risk his life for Ginny like she’s his own sister, because that’s how he is, and Ron will move earth -literally- because that’s how _he_ is, and together they’ll get everyone out of here in two hours, flat, no problem. No problem at all.

 

Obliviated Lockhart is much smarter than his former self. After a few minutes he settles in a corner and doesn’t speak again. 

 

♚

 

“Well done, Moral Fiber!” George teases, his laugh the twin of Fred’s as they all walk back up to the castle together.

 

Harry’s face is bright red all over and he’s not looking anywhere but the ground, even though he has to know none of them mean it. It’s just...it’s just so _typical_. It’s such a Harry Potter Move™, risking his own stupid arse to make sure everyone made it back safe. It’s _funny_ , in a way few things have been, these days.

 

It’s also a distraction, because Ron’s mind has been buzzing ever since he and Hermione were pulled from the library, and even waking up in the middle of the lake hadn’t dissuaded the train of thought.

 

 _We’ve taken what you’ll sorely miss_ …

 

Is it true? Is he really? But then- how would they know? Did they just see the two of them walking together in the corridors and think, _Right, he’ll do_? Was there some sort of spell that pointed the judges his way, some checklist, some test he wasn’t even aware he was taking?

 

Merlin. If he keeps this up, he’ll go as spare as his friends. 

 

Harry’s lagging behind, still sulking, probably, and Ron falls back to join him. He bumps their shoulders together, and Harry looks up. “What?” he asks, tone a little defensive.

 

“Am I really?” Ron asks, before he can stop himself. “What you’d miss most? Is it me?”

 

Harry flushes again, and Ron feels his own face heat up, but for once, he doesn’t regret opening his mouth. There’s a pause that feels like forever and makes Ron want to tear his hair out with impatience, until Harry’s mouth quirks up and he whispers, “Yeah.” 

 

Ron exhales, long and low. “Okay,” he says, hardly aware of what he’s saying. “Right. Good. Um, me too.”

 

Harry _beams_. His shoulders square and he walks a little straighter, a little faster, finally looking like a proper Triwizard champion.

 

♚

 

“There’ll be only one murder here tonight,” Black says with a manic grin. 

 

 _Fuck shit bugger fuck shit_ his leg hurts, pain lancing up and down his calf like the drag of knives, but he has to keep standing. He has to, keep himself between Harry and this -this _murderer_ , this _maniac_ \- because if he gives in and collapses to the ground and Black kills Harry then he’ll never forgive himself. Black can’t have him. Ron says so. 

 

It doesn’t matter how badly he gets hurt, doesn’t matter what he has to face down. Devil’s Snare, basilisks, bloody great spiders, homicidal godfathers, whatever. Somewhere in the past three years, maybe even that first day, when Harry looked at Ron and didn’t know a thing about him but still saw something to stick up for, Ron decided he would always do the same. 

 

Ron looks right into Black’s face as he bares his teeth in a mockery of a dog’s growl. He wants to growl right back. _He’s ours. He’s mine. You can’t have him._

 

_Don’t even bother trying. Not while I’m around._

 

♚

 

“I told him to take the Cup with me.”

 

When Harry said that back in the Hospital Wing, Ron just stared, taking in his best friend’s tortured expression and wracking his brain for anything, anything, to say, to let him know nothing he was thinking was true. And now they’re on top of the Astronomy Tower, and the midnight moon is shining down on them and Ron still can’t look away. They shouldn’t be up here, but no one’s arsed about the rules right now, and they’re not about to tell the Boy Who Lived Once Again what to do. Harry’s profile cuts pale gold through the shadow, bleached by the moon, unmoving and silent. Ron’s still tongue tied.

 

 _Everything’s going to change now, isn’t it?_ Hermione’s question rings in his head, succinct and ominous. She’s right, of course. 

 

He and Harry are lying so close together, faces turned upwards towards the night sky with their shoulders a mere inch apart. But with Harry exuding misery like body odor, that inch feels almost impassable. 

 

 _Talk to him_ , Hermione advised. _Get him alone. Maybe he’ll open up if it’s just you_. But what is he supposed to say? After everything that’s happened, where is he supposed to start? _Him_ , the one with perpetual foot-in-mouth syndrome, offering sympathy? Who is he kidding.

 

“I love you,” is what he comes up with. 

 

Harry flips over abruptly, a sudden pressure along Ron’s left side. “What?”

 

His eyes are so green. So sad. So desperate for any shred of hope. Ron imagines his own look much the same. “I love you,” he repeats. “I’m so in love with you that it’s sickening, really it is.”

 

It’s not very smooth, as first kisses go. Harry’s lips are raw from where he’s been obsessively chewing on them, a little off-center, a little too much pressure. He doesn’t care. It feels good anyway, so good, makes him feel raw and flayed open for the taking. Harry bites too hard on his lower lip and he feels it in his lower spine. 

 

Harry breaks away, panting and looking delirious. “I love you too,” he says, as if he needed to. Ron nods frantically and they dive back in, trading desperation for a little human comfort and reassurance.

 

Maybe he isn’t losing them, after all. Maybe, if Harry loves him, loves him like this, he won’t leave. Maybe they won’t lose Hermione either, even as Bulgarian Quidditch stars and the great wide world beckon for her. Maybe, Ron is going to have to learn to stop worrying about the future and start focusing on the present, on _this_ , on lips chapped and off-center and warm.

 

Because Voldemort’s back. And that means they have a job to do, together.

 

♚

 

So, yeah. That’s what happened. All of that.

 

He can’t put all of that in words, package it all up nice and neat and present it to his mum. He mulls over all the explanations he could possibly offer and none of them make a jot of sense.  

 

_So, Mum, this probably isn’t what you were expecting but this is how it is now._

 

_I’m in love with the boy who’s been sharing a room with me for the past four years._

 

_As it turns out, love doesn’t feel like butterflies or fireworks._

 

All those Celestina Warbeck songs are full of shit. A cauldron full of hot, strong love? Please. Muggle singers, though, they’re onto something, with their bad medicine and talk of hurting so good, because in his experience, love is mostly suffering and being happy about it. Ron will never question his tea leaves ever again.

 

Finally, after glaring at the extremely unhelpful mirror one last time, he does what he usually does, which is give up and hope inspiration comes in the moment. And really, he hasn’t done too badly so far. He got a boyfriend out of it, anyway.

 

His mum is downstairs in the kitchen, tutting over the sad state of the cupboards. Grimmaud Place is a dump, even compared to their home, but if anyone can make the kitchen a homey space again, it’s his mother.

 

“Oh, Ron!” she exclaims with a little jump when she sees him behind her. She smiles anyway, warm, and Ron shuffles forward a few more steps. “What do you need? Also, have you seen the bread knife?”

 

“I think George had it earlier,” he replies, rubbing the back of his neck. 

 

His mum throws her hands up in the air. “Merlin only knows what they’re doing to it. Now, what was it you wanted?”

 

“Oh, um,” Ron replies brilliantly. “Well. It’s just.”

 

“Yes?” his mum prods, a little warily, as if she’s wondering what he’s broken this time.

 

“Well. Harry and I. He. We. We’re sort of, you know.” He flaps his hand vaguely. “Together.”

 

“Yes, and..?”

 

 _And?_ “And, that’s it? Thought you should, know, is all.”

 

“Oh!” His mum’s brow furrows. “ Wait, just now? But, we thought-”

 

“Who? Thought what?”

 

His mum sags against the kitchen counter and chuckles. “Your father and I thought that happened ages ago, but it seems we were wrong. So. You and Harry, hmm?”

 

Ron nods, and sits on the island. His knees are a little weak at the moment. “Yeah. Me and Harry. Us.”

 

His mum sighs a little wistfully. “Well. I’m not going to lie and tell you it’ll be easy.”

 

Ron snorts. Easy? If it ever got easy he’d probably drop dead of shock.

 

“But Weasleys always find out early what it is they want. Your father and I got together when we were thirteen, did we tell you that? Got married at seventeen. Everyone thought we were daft, but we just knew, and sometimes that’s all there is to it. And if this is what you want, I know nothing’s going to stop you from keeping it.”

 

Ron sags, that huge weight on his chest suddenly gone. That’s it, that’s exactly it. This is what he wants. He hops off the island and gives his mum a hug, clutching a little too tightly. Her eyes are a little glassy when she lets him go, and she turns back to the cupboard with a muttered, _growing up too fast_.  

 

He runs upstairs, heedless of screaming racist portraits, so he can write Harry right away. He hasn’t been able to tell him much, which he knows has been driving Harry spare, but maybe this’ll give him some relief, an anchor to keep him grounded. His mum’s right, they’re probably growing up too fast, him with an entire family fighting an old war made new, his boyfriend and best friend trapped in Surrey with his abusive relatives, but at least they’re doing it together.

 

Because this is it- love. Whatever it is about Harry, that inspires such loyalty in the people around him -and not just Ron, but Hermione, and Dumbledore, and McGonagall and Neville and the entire Weasley clan- it’s going to save them. All different kinds of love. Voldemort is back but it doesn’t matter, because they have each other. They’ll protect each other, protect Harry, and old No Nose won’t stand a chance. 

 

_Power the Dark Lord knows not._

 

Damn right. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, follow me on Tumblr! I have a writing blog:
> 
> https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wyattandersonwriting 
> 
> I've got lots of stuff uploaded there- personal essays, original fiction, poems- with more to come! Hope to see you there!


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